


Before I Sleep

by ibbywrites



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (not between peter and tony), 23yo Peter, Angst, Bedsharing, Forced Proximity, Fugitives, Infidelity, M/M, No Morgan, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Road Trip, Slow Burn, Tags to be added, Whump, literally the slowest burn ever conceived of i aint jokin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-24 22:07:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22065133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ibbywrites/pseuds/ibbywrites
Summary: The Starker roadtrip fic that isn't a roadtrip fic at all.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 16
Kudos: 33





	Before I Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> [Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/03tChojquZLS1nnSlXBJS6?si=hRokRMahQ66TSDCUqFlcUg)
> 
> (Chapter 1 covers the first 5 tracks)
> 
> This is a labour in all senses of the word. I hope you enjoy.

(Peter)

———

There is a question to be begged regarding the usefulness of a 6th-sense (‘ _Peter Tingle_ ’ was not ok then and it definitely isn’t ok now) _heads-up_ warning that doesn’t seem to figure a 3:00am bedroom-intruder warrants said heads-up. As it is, Peter Parker, aged 23, NYU graduate student— _ex_ -graduate student, actually, as of about 12 hours ago—wakes woefully disoriented and unprepared by a pair of hands curled around his shoulders, shaking him, and a hushed voice urging him into the land of consciousness. It takes a good few adrenaline-soaked moments before Peter realises the wrists he has his hands wrapped around belong to the familiar face materialising in the darkness above him, though it’s a face he sees only on a screen these days, just like the old days.

The shock of Tony Stark showing up unannounced in one’s private abode loses a bit of the novelty the second time round, though unexpectedly being held down by strong hands that have featured in one’s pubescent fantasies (and, alright, a few not-so-pubescent fantasies, too), in one’s bed in the middle of the night maybe makes up for the déjà-vu-factor when it comes to novelty.

“You with me?” Mr. Stark is saying, patting his cheek like he’s rousing a fainting victim. Peter remembers the bottle of Jack on his bedside.

“What–”

“Look, I don’t have a lot of time here,” Mr. Stark says, releasing Peter’s shoulders and pulling his wrists from Peter’s now-loosened fingers. Peter’s heart, easing in its rhythm, kicks back into a gallop.

Mr. Stark straightens, immediately pacing the length of the bed. When he continues, Peter can tell from the glint of streetlight through the window that he’s staring fixedly at the wall. “There’s–… Something has happened. I can’t explain right now, but I need to disappear for a while. As in, I need to be already gone. Like, yesterday.

“Anyways.” He’s stalling, uncharacteristically, and Peter feels the hairs rise on his arms, hackles up ( _finally_ ). “Anyways, look I– I’m just going to be straight with you here, Pete. Peter.” God, it’s more awkward than when Peter was fifteen, how did they get to this? 

Mr. Stark visibly steels himself and fully turns towards Peter, meeting his eye. “I need your help.” (there’s a significant amount of irony steeped in this exchange, Peter can feel it even through the haze of grogginess). “I wish I could explain. But it’s sort of in or out, kid.”

Peter is a little bit angry (with himself, with Mr. Stark, with the world) that it really isn’t a decision, despite everything.

Mr. Stark fidgets and paces, looking like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, as Peter pulls on yesterday’s jeans and hoodie, grabs a duffel from under his bed and starts shoving whatever looks mostly-clean from his dresser and the floor. He returns from chucking a few toiletries in with the jumble of unfolded clothing (Mr. Stark was cagey at best when Peter tried to get a read on how much he should bring; “Just grab whatever you can in five minutes. We can buy anything you forget.”) to find Mr. Stark peering out the window. He looks a bit like someone’s slightly crazy conspiracy-theorist-relative spying on the neighbour through the drapes, but Peter refrains from saying so. He has just enough room on top to jam his suit in, and opens the closet to pull it out.

“No–” Mr. Stark’s fingers are warm and rough around Peter’s wrist as he stops him from reaching for the hanging suit. “No suit. Leave it.”

Peter just looks at him, implications swirling in his head. “O _kayyy_...” is all he says, dropping his hand and closing the closet door with a soft click. 

To add to Peter’s mounting wariness, having pulled on his boots and coat, zipped the duffel closed, Mr. Stark shakes his head when Peter jangles the keys from the front door and instead leads them back to the bedroom. It’s not that Peter’s not used to using the fire-escape—he’s in and out of that particular window most nights of the week—it’s just weird watching Mr. Stark folding himself through the small space, toeing delicately to avoid the small collection of Kronenbourgs beside an empty flower pot in the corner of the balcony. Peter shoulders his bag, expecting some sort of smart-ass quip, but Mr. Stark just moves past him and starts on the rusty iron ladder.

There’s an old Honda Civic waiting for them in the alley, the epitome, both in colour and in concept, of the word ‘beige’.

“You can drive, right?” 

Yeah Peter can fucking _drive_ , thanks, as if Mr. Stark hadn’t arranged for a ridiculous bright (fucking _iron-man_ ) red Audi S7, bedecked with a comically huge novelty bow and everything, to be waiting outside his apartment on Peter’s 21st birthday. The little envelope on the driver’s seat had contained not a card with well wishes, but a receipt for a package of driving lessons. He hadn’t seen Mr. Stark in over two years or heard from him at all in almost a year, and his 21st birthday hadn’t change that. Nor did his 22nd. He’d taken the driving lessons, returned the car.

Mr. Stark tosses Peter the keys without waiting for a response and climbs in the passenger side. 

——

The streets of midtown at half-past three in the morning on a Tuesday in late April are about as barren as they get. The drive to the Jersey turnpike is silent, Mr. Stark slouched low in his seat and wearing a baseball cap– which. Peter thinks not for the first time that someone (Natasha) really needs to have A Talk with certain Avengers about effective disguises. The blue-ish light from Peter’s phone which Mr. Stark promptly expropriated when Peter joined him in the car gives him a pallid, ghostly cast which makes something low in Peter’s stomach squirm, muted but uncomfortable. His surreptitious peripheral glances take note of the tired lines of Mr. Stark's face, drawn and deep. He’s… looked better.

“Take the 78,” Mr. Stark says without looking up. 

——

The sun is barely beginning to rise by the time they reach Lancaster. They avoid the city, skirting along the northern edges, same as they bypassed Philly, distant lights a bright glow in the pre-dawn darkness, until they’re edging back out into Amish country. 

“Turn here.” Mr. Stark, seemingly on a whim, suddenly directing Peter to pull into a lonely gas station with a diner attached, populated mainly by big rigs and muddy pickup trucks.

They get out, Peter stifling his questions. Mr. Stark leads them towards the station, then quickly changes direction to a row of trucks parked alongside the single building, out of view of the windows. He walks quickly along the line, but Peter can tell he’s inspecting each vehicle closely, until he stops in front of one—a mid-sized old dirt-brown 1990’s Chevy—gotta be hundreds identical to it in this county alone. 

He places a hand on the hood, looks once towards the building, then back at the truck. “Bring the car around,” he tells Peter, motioning to the empty spot two stalls down without looking at him.

By the time Peter pulls in and kills the engine, Mr. Stark has the truck hotwired. Peter’s not really sure what the average car-thief clocks in at, but he figures it’s pretty safe to be grudgingly impressed considering Mr. Stark was only out of his line of sight for less than 30 seconds total. 

“Grab the bags, let’s go,” Mr. Stark says, leaving Peter to pull their duffel bags from the back seat as he pulls a package of Wet Wipes from the glove compartment and quickly wipes down the hard interior. 

Mr Stark is pulling back onto the highway in the brown pick-up, Peter riding passenger, less than five minutes after they entered the parking lot in the beige Civic. Peter bites his tongue and stares at the flat expanse of highway ahead.

——

They’re just past Lancaster, not yet over the Susquehanna when instead of joining the main highway to cross the river, Mr. Stark turns north onto a smaller highway. No explanation, but then again, nothing else that’s happened since waking has been explained to Peter either. He has no idea where they’re going, or for how long. Peter stares silently out the window, instead, sullen.

Rural Pennsylvania is… strange. The road winds through a strange Klimt-like patchwork of fields in different hues of green. The uneven grid of farmland is disorienting to Peter, who is used to vertices, not horizons, and for whom the mass of the Atlantic, even hidden behind the skyscrapers of Manhattan, is an ever-present indicator of East. As the day brightens, the sun slips behind a heavy veil of incoming cloud, diffusing the light and disorienting him further. 

The road twists and turns often, and by midday Peter has no idea if they’re still headed north, or if they’re even still in Pennsylvania. He does know that it doesn’t take seven hours to drive across Pennsylvania, which means they’re either in a different state, or they’ve been doubling back, seemingly aimlessly. Peter’s not stupid, though; clearly they aren’t in a hurry to get somewhere specific, at least not until they lose a possible tail. 

The implications of that train of thought are alarming, so Peter shuts it off, knowing the subsequent questions followed by lack of answers would only lead to frustration. Mr. Stark would tell him, if he could. Right? He trusted Peter enough to ask for his help despite their distance, despite having a literal team of support– that has to mean something… _right_?

Peter rubs a hand over his fatigued eyes and reaches out, flipping the old-school radio knob on the dashboard. Mr. Stark flicks it back off before the static even has a moment to resolve into something intelligible. His eyes stay on the road ahead.

——

The rain starts mid-afternoon, obscuring the distances in a blanket that thickens like fleece as the day wears on. As the lopsided quilt of farmland gives way to rising hills, the clouds hang low, coating and draping around the peaks as they rise in elevation and out of sight, rain rattling against the metal roof in a wash of sound. 

It’s… well, it’s boring, frankly. Peter is bored. And hungry. His stomach has been growling for the past two hours. He’s about to say something about it, suggest they stop for food, when Mr. Stark blindly gropes for the zipper of his duffle where the bags are dumped on the bench between them like a barricade. He finds it, unzips it, eyes not leaving the twisting road ahead of them, and digs around inside. He eventually procures a box of crackers and dented metal thermos, tossing them into Peter’s lap one after the other as if he read his mind.

The thermos contains only water, which Peter isn’t sure he’s relieved or disappointed about. 

He’s through his fifth handful of crackers by the time manners kick in. “Thanks,” he says, through a mouthful of crackers.

Mr. Stark inclines his head and finally looks over at him, the first eye contact they’ve made all afternoon aside from skirting peripheral glances. His lips thin into a line that’s more of a grimace than a smile, but he accepts the palm full of goldfish Peter extends his way.

——

Night is falling when Peter awakes from his nap, lulled asleep by a full stomach, fatigue, and the gentle sway of the truck winding through the low mountains. In the fading light he can see they’re out of the mountains and into rolling, forested hills. He thinks that means northern Pennsylvania, but they could really just as well be in Maryland or Virginia at this point.

Mr. Stark notices he’s roused and hands him a plastic-wrapped sandwich and a coke. The gas tank reads full, Peter notes, which means he must have slept through a pit stop. Which is… weird– for someone with his hair-trigger senses. But then, this whole day has been bizarre, as if he entered a completely alternate reality with a whole new set of rules. He chalks it up to post-exam exhaustion, not to mention any normal person would have been still-drunk from his celebratory fete at the Sly Fox mere hours before being woken. 

They finally pull off the highway as the dashboard clock ticks over 9:00, aged green numbers faded to a pale, sickly looking teal. The single-story motel is at least 60 years old, and looks it; the type that only exists in the liminal transitory world off the beaten track. Peter doubts he’d be able to find it on Google Maps. _If you can’t google it, does it really exist?_

Mr. Stark parks the truck at the edge of the lot and hands Peter a couple of bills. The clerk doesn’t even ask him for an ID much less a credit card. He hardly even seems to notice Peter at all, and Peter thinks it’s probably purposeful. Easier to claim ignorance if you never really looked at their faces. Peter wonders how Mr. Stark—frequent enough guest at The Ritz that, rumour has it, he once had the President bumped from the _Presidential_ suite—knows about this roadside, transient motel. 

“I didn’t,” Mr. Stark says with a shrug when Peter asks, working the key into the sticky lock of the motel room door. “Just passing by.”

Peter doesn’t really believe him.

The room is expectedly dumpy. Mr. Stark tosses his duffel on the nearest of the two beds, leaving Peter to take the other as he locks and bolts the door behind them. Peter sits gingerly on the edge of the bed, pointedly not thinking about every episode of _Hotel Hell_ he’s ever seen or about what that bedspread would look like under a blacklight. _Nope_. Definitely _not_ thinking about it. He busies himself with untying his boots.

He looks up when his phone slides into his line of sight. “I turned it off before we left Jersey. Don’t turn it back on.”

Peter takes it, shoves it into the familiar phone-shaped-indent within his jeans pocket. The question is halfway out his mouth as he looks back up to find Mr. Stark has already disappeared within the bathroom, door closing with a pointed click, though Peter notices that he doesn’t lock it. There’s no television set, and without his phone or even a book to read, Peter finds himself staring at the horrible peeling yellowed wallpaper and listening absently to the sounds of Mr. Stark moving around the bathroom. After a while he picks up the unmistakable sounds of shaving, sensitive ears catching the sound of the blade shearing through each coarse hair.

Peter shoves his feet back into his boots shrugs into his coat, grabs the room key and his wallet and is out the door before it occurs to him that he should probably have given Mr. Stark a heads up that he was stepping out. The rain has lightened to a misty drizzle and the cold night air feels good in Peter’s lungs. It’s not often that a city-kid from Queens has the chance to take lungful of clean, pollution free air. He wishes the night were clear, because he bets the stars would be visible out here in that way he’s only seen in photos and movies.

There’s a sad-looking gas-station-cum-diner glowing from across the small highway, the only other lights visible. It doesn’t have much, but a couple cokes, a couple bags of chips, and a fistful of slim jims is better than going to bed hungry. Peter buys a copy of every sun-yellowed word puzzle and sudoku book sitting forlornly on the bottom shelf of the aisle sparsely populated by roadmaps, oil funnels, and air pressure gauges. There’s a rickety carousel at the end of the aisle half-stocked with paperbacks of dubious quality. He hesitates momentarily, then grabs the least offensive looking 3 books and dumps his armful in front of the cashier, worried about taking too long.

Needlessly, it turns out, as Mr. Stark is still ensconced in the bathroom when Peter returns with his boon. The shower is running. He deposits the bag at the bottom of his bed and peels out of his clothes, listening to the sounds in the bathroom carefully as he pulls on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt from his bag. 

He’s reclining on the peeled-back bedspread and has made his way through his share of the pepperoni and chips by the time he finally hears the shower turn off, having left Mr. Stark’s half waiting for him on his bed. Peter finds himself arranging himself on his bed, casually supine and thumbing through the beginning pages of the first book his hand landed on within the bag, and feels suddenly extremely foolish and young. As if he was waiting for some romantic liaison to enter the room and find him so _artlessly_ waiting in bed. Old habits ( _feelings_ ) die hard. He tosses the book on the bedside and flops uselessly back against the pillows.

Mr. Stark doesn’t reappear, though, and Peter eventually drifts off on top of the scratchy bedspread to the muffled sounds of soft clinking and clattering against cheap porcelain, thinking that tomorrow he will demand some answers. 

——

When Peter awakes, he is nestled under the starchy sheets, and Mr. Stark is hunched over at the foot of his bed, running his hands through his hair, clean-shaven face drawn in a way that indicates he never slept just as much as the untouched comforter he sits on. He’s also... _blonde_. 

The watery morning light filtering through moth-eaten curtains highlights the peroxide hue. Peter coughs and Mr. Stark looks at him, meets his gaze squarely, as if challenging him to ask the questions they both know are dying to come out. 

Instead Peter snorts, says, “Jesus Christ,” and climbs out of bed to take a piss.

——

If the mood the previous day was strained at best, day two is downright sullen. Peter pokes listlessly at the rubbery diner eggs and puck-like pancake migrating around his plate and tries to keep his eyes from unconsciously drifting up to stare at Mr. Stark’s horrid new hair again. There are pictures drifting around on the internet of the last time he disastrously went blonde back in the 90’s. The look… hasn’t improved with age. Paired with the lack of facial hair that has become almost more of a personality trait that a fashion statement, he looks like some sort of weird off-brand Tony Stark. Great Value Tony Stark. Upside-down Tony Stark. 

Mr. Stark sets his utensils down with a deliberate click and pins Peter with a look. Oops.

“Rude to stare, kid.”

But Peter’s not some shy fifteen-year-old anymore, intimidated and awed by his hero. Instead of looking away he holds Mr. Starks gaze, defiant and challenging.

“You got something to say, say it.”

Peter has a lot of things to say, actually, and his mouth is opening on the first question when he’s promptly cut off by the single employee, server and cook, dropping the bill on the cheap formica tabletop, not waiting before shuttling back off to the kitchen. Mr. Stark is out of his seat and headed towards the register, hand digging in his pocket for his wallet, before Peter can regroup.

Mr. Stark rings the service bell and picks absently at something encrusted on the countertop when the employee shouts something unintelligible from the back. The man comes waddling into view less than a minute later and proceeds to ring the bill through. Peter watches curiously as Mr. Stark gives the still-empty diner another once-over before leaning in towards the man. His voice is pitched low, low enough that even Peter can’t hear him over the noisy rattling of the ventilation and the insistent whine of a failing lightbulb over the next booth. Mr. Stark slides an age-softened $20 across the countertop and then reaches into his wallet and demonstratively counts out a number of crisp new hundreds into a small pile beside the twenty.

The man regards the money for a long silent moment, then slips the twenty in the till and covers the stack of bills with a meaty palm, sliding it off the counter into the unseen shadows of his apron. He turns without looking up at Mr. Stark once through the entire exchange, and shuffles wordlessly back through the kitchen door. Mr. Stark refolds his wallet carefully, pockets it, and casually returns to their booth, sliding in and bringing his coffee mug to his mouth. His eyes meet Peter’s over the chipped ceramic rim, challenging again. 

Peter holds his gaze, challenging right back, knowing that Mr. Stark is trying to goad him into asking, just to deny him an answer (contrary—to a fault—and _doesn’t he know they’re not playing that game anymore?_ ). His suspicions are confirmed when Mr. Stark winks at him, and it’s nothing like the conspiratory, mentorly winks from years before, more adversarial than anything else. Peter gives him a flat look and busies himself politely arranging his fork and knife on his empty plate, ignoring the urge to dip his fingers into the remains of the syrup that he drenched his plate with in hopes of making it more palatable. It hadn’t. He still ate the whole plate.

Sensing the man approaching from behind him, Peter pushes his plate towards the edge of the table, which earns him a maybe-pleased grunt of acknowledgement as it is removed, hardly slowing his fly-by-bussing even as he drops a set of keys with a heavy thunk on the table next to Mr. Stark’s coffee. The room is empty of the two of them again as the man pushes through the swinging doors, audibly depositing the dishes into the sink in a loud clatter.

“Time to go,” Mr. Stark says mildly, draining the dregs from his mug and setting it down with a punctuated, dull clunk and plucking the keys off the table. He gives them a jaunty swing then closes his fist around them, waiting for Peter to drain his own cup and begin to extricate himself from the booth before turning on his heel and heading towards the door.

Instead of returning across the road to deposit their bags back into the brown Chevy, Mr. Stark leads them around the back of the building and to a 70’s green Dodge. Their bags are slung under the hardtop camper shell into the bed of the truck. Mr. Stark heads Peter off around the passenger door, unlocking it first before tossing the keys at Peter whose reflexes act before his brain, snatching them out of the air and staring after Mr. Stark as he climbs in and shuts the door.

The truck is in dubious condition but the engine turns over cleanly when Peter twists the keys in the ignition. Mr. Stark pulls a map of the midwest, curling and soft with age, from the glove compartment, and folds it a few times, before handing the smaller square to Peter. 

He presses his finger to a lonely looking area in northwestern Pennsylvania. “That’s us.” He taps his finger in the middle of the Virginia panhandle. “That’s us tonight. Find the longest route you can take to get us there without crossing more than one state line.” The crooked half-smile that accompanies this is the first time Peter’s seen Mr. Stark smile in… well in almost two years. If it can really be classified as that when it clearly doesn’t reach his eyes.

Mr. Stark succumbs to restless sleep as Peter navigates the twisting road of a national park less than an hour later. He tentatively reaches for the radio dial, but all he gets is static. 

———

Day two, three, four, five, six. Peter begins to lose track. The midwest is unchanging, grey and flat. They cross so many state lines that Peter recalls a picture in his high school bio textbook about caffeinated spider webs, ignores the sidelong glance he gets when he snorts, buried in a shivering huddle within his jacket and hoodie in the passenger seat of some junkyard-worthy rustbucket with no heat. Sometimes Peter drives, sometimes it’s Mr. Stark. Sometimes it’s a shitty old jetta, sometimes it’s an old blue wagon, a faded green pickup. The automotive equivalent of hotel art; elevator music. 

Mr. Stark speaks infrequently and Peter even less so except to demand answers that are never offered. He usually gives up before noon. He has no idea what they’re running from and the longer they go the more the fear fades and frustration builds in its place. It’s still fucking raining.

———

(Tony)

———

“You won’t fucking tell me what’s going on, so maybe we can talk about where the fuck you’ve been lately.” 

They’re somewhere in Indiana, heading northwest to Illinois, and Peter spits it out like venom, acrid and biting. Tony’s been expecting this. Or, at least, he _should_ have been expecting this; he’s been a little… preoccupied. 

“What do you mean by ‘ _lately_.’” Snide, buying time. He really hadn’t thought this part through when he threw his life into a duffle and sped through the night to Peter’s apartment, leaving his wife sleeping in their bed. “You know how busy I am.” 

“Mr. Stark, I can probably count on my hands the number of times I’ve seen you in person since you–… since… since I got–” he wavers, recovers, _brave_ “–back. And half of those you were probably in a coma.”

 _Ouch_. 

Tony tells himself to toss the kid a bone, be honest– or at least– a little honest. As honest as he can be. He can’t give him much, but he can give him this.

He heaves a sigh, a quiet acknowledgment. “I know, kid. Things have been… difficult. I’ve been...—you know, I worked on this with a therapist and everything, not quite _ten thousand dollars_ but close enough—I’ve been having a hard time. Hello, my name is Mr. Stark and I’ve been having a _hard time_.” He glances over at Peter. “Pretty good, right?”

Peter stares at him for a moment, clearly taken aback, and something in Tony _aches_ ; still wearing his heart on his sleeve after everything, god he’s brave– “But your father– you’re not very _angry_ with him?”

Tony chokes on nothing—air, spit, his own fucking tongue—can’t even look at the kid because he knows he’ll give it all away, and rolls his tongue around in his mouth, pushing the grin away from his cheeks from the inside, then says, mildly, “Oh, kid. That’s so sixty-thousand-dollars ago.”

It doesn’t fix anything or answer Peter’s questions about what they’re doing trundling down a dirt road in Illinois, but it breaks the tension. It stops raining, at least.

———

There’s a joke, somewhere, as they cross another state line (or, the same one, for the third time, actually), Peter trying to hide the way he’s wiping the corners of his eyes as he tells Tony in a scratchy voice about being so _lonely_ , about a bathtub vs the cramped interior of a tiny 1983 teal Volkswagon, but Tony’s not _that_ stupid. 

Peter’s throat closes around a hitch, head turning away to the window as he swallows around it, and Tony allows him the grace of pretending not to notice. The kid is stronger than he’s ever been, or will be. 

A therapist might have been a better gift than the stupid red Audi, Tony thinks, though it probably would have gone over with similar returns.

———

It’s easier, it turns out, in the dark. 

“You could have– just said _something_. Like– _anything_. Anything would have been better than–… you know, the only one who really talks to me is Natasha?”

Tony listens to the rustling sound of Peter turning over under the stiff sheets in the darkness. Every minute or so the red Vacancy sign across the parking lot flickers briefly on and illuminates his face, staring up at the ceiling—then—the back of his head—limning the line of his jaw and neck—then—glinting strangely in his eyes, looking right at him, all black. He has a lot to say, and Tony listens.

“I just–…” a frustrated huff. “You know, for a long time I was just really _angry_ with you.”

It's so earnest and, _oh_ , there’s a joke there too, if Tony were still that asshole. He’s trying _really_ hard not to be these days. Besides, he’s _not_ –

“Because I think– I think it was… easier. To be angry. With you.”

Tony can feel it coming.

“It felt better, to be angry. I was just so tired of feeling–…” It doesn’t take super-hearing to make out the rough click of Peter swallowing, even over the hum of the radiator. “Hurt, I guess.” 

_Brave—Jesus—_ Tony thinks, _how does he do it?_

“You know, I thought you just… didn’t care. That I’d– I’d done my job. Served my _purpose._ ”

And that, _that_ , Tony can’t fucking abide, breaking his silence before he has a chance to make the decision to. “ _Peter_ –” 

“I know, I know, it’s– you don’t have to–”

“Peter, _no_.”

“I know– just–”

“No, _listen to me_.” Tony wills his voice steady, strong, no invitation for argument. “You’re right, I fucked up. But that’s on me. You–” It’s– he _has_ to make Peter understand. Deep breath. “You know me, by now, c’mon kid, you know me. That’s sort of– my M.O., right? You know that. I made you feel like that and I’m– I’m a jackass for doing that. Because that’s not–”

“Mr. Stark–” Peter tries to interrupt, taking pity, like Tony deserves _pity_.

“Don’t. Just– just listen, ok? I’m not very good at this, but I’m trying to be better. I’m sorry I made you feel that way. I don’t blame you, its– I mean, it’s _valid_. Obviously. The worst part is that it couldn’t be further from the truth. I was trying– I was trying to protect you. Again.” It sounds even stupider when he says it out loud than it did in his head, where frankly, it already sounded _really_ stupid. “Turns out I’m– really shitty at that.”

Peter is quiet for a long while, though Tony can feel him staring at his profile through the darkness, undoubtedly able to see without the aid of the neon sign. It stretches out, and Tony gives in and turns to look at him as the light flickers again. He’s rewarded by a wan smile. 

“Yeah, you kind of are.”

Tony does his best approximation of a self-depricating shrug while lying down, _what can you do–_

“You think you could– I dunno. Stop?”

Tony lowers his eyes, chuffing out a breath. “Honestly, kid? Probably not.”

———

It’s stupid—without his suit, Peter’s easily the far more physically capable of the two when it comes to defense—but it makes something settle a little easier in his gut to take the bed closest to the door and window every night. Peter doesn’t question it, but he’s smart; he would know. He graciously lets Tony have it.

They’re round the back of the long building, bordering on a patch of woods some 30 miles north of Fort Dodge. There’s no streetlights on this side, and the room is black as pitch.

“So– did your therapist agree? That you did it to protect me?”

As far as cold opens go, Tony is less than impressed. He had forgotten that for all that sweetness and bravery and wide-eyed insouciance, Peter Parker was also a bit of a little shit. Age has only made him bolder and sharpened that edge.

“Can’t say you came up much in between the abusive childhood and dying for– what, the third time?”

It’s not nice, but neither was Peter. Tony has… self-control issues. It’s a thing. He can practically feel the heat of Peter’s embarrassed flush across the room. It’s not even true, anyways. And for the record, no, she hadn’t.

“Thought you were trying to be less of an asshole,” Peter mutters into his pillow, a little burnt, but Tony has to give him credit for saying it. For growing up without him and not taking shit. Good for him.

“It’s a work in progress.” Tony says, blithe. “Just say what you mean, kid.”

“Fine.” It’s a little petulant, and Tony likes that he hasn’t grown up _too_ much. “How much of it was misplaced keep-you-at-arm’s-length-to-protect-you,” it comes out in a rush, in that way that Peter’s always had of trying to smuggle as many words as he can into the smallest space of time possible, like he’s worried people will tune him out, “and how much of it was not wanting to– I don’t know. _Deal_ with me.”

Tony considers, stops himself from snapping a response, hackles raised in defense. “Say, fifty-fifty?” He folds back the bedspread, too hot in the warming nights these past few days as spring toes the line of early summer, nights sometimes muggy and warm. “Kid, I– I don’t exactly have the best track record when it comes to you.”

Peter makes a sound like he’s going to argue, of course he is, so Tony cuts him off.

“Do you know the shit I got from the rest of the team for recruiting you, when they found out your age? A lot of shit. I got a lot of shit, Peter. But it was done, and you’d been out there in that fucking _onesie—by yourself_ —you were a _kid_. I wanted to help.”

Peter snorts.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I get it, ha ha,” Tony drags a hand over his face. “Then all that stuff with the Vulture and getting a– a fucking _building_ dropped on you, I– so I literally built you a suit of armor. And you used it to follow me into _space_ , you little _shit_ , where–…”

Peter makes a small noise, in his throat, wounded, but doesn’t say anything as Tony swallows around his vocal chords.

“Where you _died_ , Peter. On my watch.”

“That had nothing to do with where I was, though, I would have still–”

“No, you don’t get. You can’t get it, kid. I had to– you died in my fucking _arms_. And I lived with that for five fucking _years_. Do you have _any_ idea the level of guilt–”

“You kinda died in my arms, too, you know.”

It’s not technically true, he didn’t _die_ , at least not permanently or even semi-permanently, and he was in his _wife’s_ arms, but Tony bites down on it. Not the point. “It’s different.”

“Oh, ok. Thanks. For that.” Peter says icily.

Tony sighs. A voice that sounds an awful lot like his sixty-thousand-dollar-therapist pipes up in the back of his head in that slightly condescending tone that all therapists seem to have, like they’ve got you all figured out and are just trying to guide you down the path to self- _enlightenment_. It says, _was that the healthiest way you could have handled that, Tony?_

 _Fuck off_ , Tony thinks.

The mood is decidedly chilly the next morning; some days are better than others.

———

Minnesota. Or maybe Iowa. Tony’s behind the wheel of the sun-faded blue Volvo station wagon they ‘comandeered’ back near Grand Rapids (Peter, bleeding heart, endlessly conscience-stricken to the point where he literally cringes when Tony refers to it _stealing_ or _jacking_ , so Tony cracks open his mental thesaurus, changes to, _confiscate, appropriate, requisition, liberate_ , and it doesn’t quite get a laugh but it does get a long-suffering eyeroll instead of a cringe, so–). The sun peeks out, finally, from behind the clouds, and Tony flicks the radio on after over ten days of driving in silence. It’s fucking TOTO, because what else would it be. 

He hears Peter breathe out in something between a huff and a groan beside him in the passenger seat. Tony lets his ring and pinky finger tap on the steering wheel as the verse kicks in. He can see the corners of Peter’s mouth working out of his periphery, and reaches his tapping pinky out to swipe the volume knob as the song crescendos into the chorus. Tony nods his chin along, notices Peter tip his head back against his headrest, reluctant grin stretching his mouth. He catches Peter’s eye as the chorus finishes, mouths along, “oo- _ooh_ ,” and Peter shakes his head, still grinning. 

“Stupid,” the kid says, just audible below the music, though his head starts to nod along as the second verse starts. “Rhyming ‘company’ with ‘Serengetti’, come _on_ ,” he groans. 

They’re both singing when the chorus hits, though, both grinning, both laughing as Peter inexplicably mimes playing the flute along with the synth solo, both yelling somewhat tunelessly along with the final chorus, Tony trying to hit the high notes—”I BLESS THE _RAAAINS_ ”—and ending up in a coughing fit that has Peter gripping the steering wheel to keep them on the road as the song fades out.

Some days are better than others.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are very much appreciated.
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://ibbywrites.tumblr.com/)
> 
> (Also, for anyone not familiar, there is some heavy reference to [this scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YG6zOS6cf20) from Pretty Woman 
> 
> And if anyone can find the CMBYN easter egg/'appropriation', you get a cookie)


End file.
